by Jennifer Greene-Sullivan
You’ll find me this morning in a black polka dot shirt with a black cardigan, black Hey Dudes, and red-rimmed glasses. My bangs found themselves successfully fluffed and fanned out. On the outside, I look put together; on the inside, however, my mind has been stuck in a fog since Thursday of last week.
Sitting at my Tiny House window, I noticed the welding shop yard; my eyes and ears tuned themselves to butterflies, small birds, and the steady metal hum of the grinder. I watched the forklift driver balance a 20-foot beam like a tightrope walker. Still, the real questions pressed in:
Is there a children’s book writer in here?
Is there a blogger in here?
Has anyone seen… ME?
A Tale of Two Styrofoam Cups
What caused this writer’s funk? Well, it all began with two identical Styrofoam cups, plastic lids, and bendy straws.
Last Wednesday night, Liam and I gathered our belongings, argued about time, hollered about the playground, and eventually left for church. He set my hand-painted Bible bag neatly on a round table in the social hall while I tossed my beige Brahmin satchel on the floor.
We made our way into the cafeteria entrance, plates in hand, hopeful for a good homecooked meal. When we returned, Liam’s eyes widened: “There are people at our table!”
Sure enough, several strangers were already seated where our stuff had been strategically placed. I whispered, “It’s okay. Just sit. They won’t bite.” So we squeezed in—mono y mono.
I contemplated jumping into their conversation, but manners won out. Instead, I chewed, swallowed, and sipped tea from the Styrofoam cup on my right… the identical twin to the Styrofoam cup on my left.
Distraction followed distraction—bathroom requests, rain soaked playground pleas—until finally, I noticed it. My lipstick-stained straw was sticking out of the cup on the left. The one I hadn’t touched, which meant the tea I’d been happily slurping all evening was from Liam’s cup on the right.
How long had I been drinking from my child’s cup? Long enough, I feared, to be… poisoned.
Poisoned with strep.
At 6:35 p.m., the doom set into my mind. Liam carries it. He shows no symptoms. But me? I knew my fate would soon be apparent. It was only a matter of time.
Time ticked on toward Thursday afternoon; I sat idling at the keyboard, fingers gingerly placed on home row, ready to move swiftly as they always do when I jabber away in my mind. Yet, they remained still. They froze. My mind went quiet because my throat hurt.
Time continued and marched on its way until Friday arrived with the blaring alarm clock. Fortunately, I dragged my fuzzy mind and sore body out of bed to get Liam and Chris ready for their day. As soon as they left, the fever hit.
Strep ONE. Jennifer ZERO.
Somehow, I still made it to work Friday evening long enough to run payroll. Saturday and Sunday came with more sick-on, sick-off misery. Monday showed up and so did I, but my mind was still on hiatus. No writing got done. I stared blankly out this Tiny House window without a single well-phrased thought.
The Post-Strep Coma
By Monday afternoon, I was convinced my brain was broken. I wrote my bestie this sad text: “I can’t write!”
She replied, “I’m sorry.”
Post-strep coma had me good.
Then, out of nowhere, this very Tuesday morning (five days after drinking from Liam’s cup)I received a fantastical mental image:
Me. OLD. Sitting here at the same keyboard, gray hair flared into bangs, cool glasses perched on my nose. But here’s the kicker—I was still staring blankly.
I asked myself, “Would an old, fuddy-duddy children’s book writer still own good bras at that age? Or would she surrender to gaping blouses and a sagging silhouette?”
And just like that—my thoughts, though random and haggard, had finally made an appearance. Apparently, they want to show up as a 70-year-old writer who gave up hair dye but kept the polka dots.
What Do I Do With Her?
So here I sit, recovering from strep, wondering what to do with this old lady version of me and her slow, distracted thoughts. Maybe she’s a warning. Maybe she’s a promise. Maybe she’s a reminder that even when my words go missing, they always come back—sometimes disguised as future me with gray bangs and sagging bras.
The Writer Awakens
On the other hand, maybe the synapses will fire more and more rapidly until… one word dances beside another. Then another word sachets while a sentence performs a pirouette, followed by a gig of a companion sentence. Together they form a strange conga line– a lovely paragraph’s dance.
A dance of writing delight—because finally, a blog post has formed, though shaped in the messiness of stream-of-consciousness.
However, it is proof enough:
A writer is who I am.
An imagination is what I have.
Jennifer ONE. Strep ZERO.
P.S. Chris hugged me goodbye early this morning as the first light of day shone in the yard. He whispered, “My throat hurts.” Strep ONE. Chris ZERO.
#WriterLife #StrepZero #BloggersOfFaith #ChristianWriter #StreamOfConsciousness
The Aging English Major 